


Grand Theft Immortal: The Inner Machnisms of Trevor Phillips

by laviedavantgarde



Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M, Multi, Other, Parody, Post-Canon, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-01-05 12:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21208823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laviedavantgarde/pseuds/laviedavantgarde
Summary: What if YOU got in the mind of Trevor Phillips via diary format?Inspired by the terribly brilliant "My Immortal" fanfiction, GTI parodies and diverges from My Immortal in plot and structure, all from the stream of consciousness from Mr. Phillips himself.The plot?Trevor's life is turned around, again, when he has to fight new foes with his mates Michael, Franklin, and Lamar.Romance (Trikey)! Violence! Foolery! Anything you can expect from Trevor, will be in this fic.I may lose brain cells from writing this.This is where my English degree has gotten me in life thus far.





	1. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevor Phillips has a diary, and he wants to tell you about his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> Dear Reader,  
You may ask what the in the actual hell I was on when thinking of this abominable magnum opus of a story. First of all, I am on nothing. Second of all, we need more parody fics of parodies. My Immortal, for those of you who haven't read it, is about a vampire witch who goes go Hogwarts and tries to defeat Voldemort, while a love triangle between Ebony (the main protagonist), Draco, and Harry blossoms and falls on its ass. Spelling errors galore and no actual resemblance to the Harry Potter world, the fanfic is considered the worst of the worst in the fanfiction realms.
> 
> I recently played GTA V over the summer for the first time (Ending C for life!), and the reasons why I wanted to make a parody out of My Immortal with GTA V is unknown. I do know that Trevor reminds me a LOT of Ebony, and his POV would be a goldmine for the story.
> 
> I want to try to stay as true to the character's personalities as possible, but in this fanfic, anything goes.
> 
> I am not trying to mimic My Immortal, but I am mirroring plot points (what I actually pieced together) to GTA V. Some of this will be canon, some will not. Let's see if this story gets anywhere.
> 
> Content warnings? Violence, lots of swearing, sexual acts stated, you know, what GTA V has. 
> 
> And of course, the actions and words of characters do NOT reflect me as a person. Remember, these characters and I are NOT one and the same.
> 
> I do not own the GTA V or the GTA universe, and I certainly do not own the technical aspects of My Immortal. These are used for fanfic purposes only.
> 
> Now on to the clusterfuck of a story!
> 
> (With legible words and writing mechanics.)

Dear Diary,

Hi! I'm Trevor Phillips. As in THE Trevor Phillips of Trevor Phillips Industries. As you know, I am a drug dealer. Meth is my bitch. I'm in my 50s, and I have male pattern baldness. A lot of people tell me I look like Steven Ogg, but clearly I am better looking. Today, I am wearing my white shirt with blood on it, since I just killed some bikers before writing this down. It's still damp, and I'm pretty sure there's some skin bits on it. Might even be tasty! I also am wearing my old blue jeans, also covered in blood and human bits. Also they're covered in dry mud after a night of drinking in a cow field. I must've ran fast down a hill because all I could hear was "You cow pervert! Get the hell out of here!" Was that a prostitute's tit, or a cow's...? Well anyway, Sandy Shores is sunny and hot, a perfect day to go and be the town terror! As I got down to my underwear, a group of hipsters drove past my trailer, gawking at my abode. I screamed "FUCK OFF!" and put up my middle finger at them. They drove away, terrified that a half naked man like myself just yelled at a group of entitled millennials.

Then Ron came to my door, knocking on it wildly.

"Boss! BOSS!" He yelled.

"What do you want Ron?! Can't you be any quieter?! I had a rough night!" I seethed. Ron's a great friend and business partner, but he should know better by now to NOT yell when I have a massive hangover!

"S-sorry boss," he whispered and stuttered. "I have to let you know that Michael is waiting outside for you."

I perked up. What he did to me all those years ago was absolute dickery, but I could understand. He now lives crime free, being a movie producer for films that are badly made but still feeds the idiotic masses. He has Amanda, Tracey, and Jimmy. And me? Well, he has me, but I was his past. But am I his present and future?

Not getting too emotional, I told Ron "Sure, let him in. I don't know why he came to you first. Oh well."

"Right away boss! HEY MIC- hey Michael!" His voice grew louder and softer again, all in one sentence. I had to cover my head, since the hangover was that bad. Too bad I couldn't get my pants on at least, but Mikey's seen less.

I shook my head. Ron, the always faithful but a little bit of a ditz. I chuckled, and as I stared at my excuse for a trailer floor, I saw a couple of shiny Oxfords. I trailed up his legs and body to his face.

Michael looks so put together, as usual. But why in the hell does he wear a fancy suit and tie outfit to Sandy Shores? Beats me.

"Hi, sugar tits." I smiled for the first time this morning.

Michael sighed, a kind of sigh that can be understood as you're going to still call me that on my deathbed, my actual deathbed.

"Hey T. Another night of debauchery?" He said, glancing at me clad in tighty whities and a pair of socks on my feet.

"Yeah..." I trailed off. "You can say that. Now, why in the hell did you have to drive all the way here for? We have texting, you know? Or did you forget how texting works?"

"Fuck off, Phillips. I was in the area, and well, I-"

Ron came bursting through the door in a panic.

"Ronald! What did I tell you about busting through the door when I have a potential buyer!" I growled lowly.

Michael gasped and told Ron "T's got it all wrong! I am NOT buying meth from you."

"It's good shit, Mikey. Better than weed." I interjected.

"Boss, please listen! There's some dude trying to sell some dope across town! He must be an idiot or a newcomer, because I sure as hell haven't seen him around!" shrieked a nervous Ron.

"A dealer? In MY meth ring? Sandy Shores is MY drug monopoly town! Ron, let's go teach that dimwit son of a whore a lesson! Get my RPG!" I ordered, putting on my steel toed boots.

"T, you aren't dressed properly nor should you go and blow up this man and his property." Michael sighed.

"The way I deal with my drug spirited vigilantism is the way I deal with it, Porkchop. Now if you excuse me, I'm going to teach this dumbfuck a lesson in what happens if you cross the all-knowing Trevor Phillips." I grabbed my assault rifle for added measure, always ready to go no matter the occassion.

"Trevor, you look like a goddamn fool. And all-knowing? Debatable." Michael scoffed.

"Says the man wearing a suit in the fucking desert!" I yelled, flipping the bird as a way of saying goodbye to Michael.

Ron and I grabbed our essential weapons of victory and we sped off in my truck, knowing that this day would be victorious for the Trevor Phillips Industries.

Go fuck yourself,

T


	2. Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevor gets some advice from someone unexpected and contemplates himself and how the world views him. The plot thickens...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Hey all! Thank you for reading this far and thank you for the guest who left kudos! I usually write very serious fics, so this fic will be fun and a challenge. I want to write the characters as they are depicted well and to not be too OOC. Make sure to keep reading and to follow me on my Tumblr, laviedavantgarde! Cheers! x

Dear Diary,

After doing very satisfying deeds to that idiot drug dealer and his close companions, what better way to hide your wrongdoings is to dispose of their bodies correctly! That was fun to say the least. Don't tell Michael, or he'll be pissed. I will not disclose the details, since this might get lost or stolen.

It was late at night, so I headed back into my trailer to settle in for the night. There were no drugs to be inhaled or sniffed, since the takedown of the wimpy drug dealer was a short high for me! I did however get a bottle of my favorite bourbon and downed two double shots. The liquid gracefully slid down into my throat, and I sighed in happiness. It takes a lot for me to get wasted, but after tampering with dead bodies, it sure as hell wears you out.

Sliding off my dirty underwear, I rinsed off my body and took a quick shower. Then I put on a new pair of underwear and it didn't take me long to fall asleep.

The next morning, I woke up, scared shitless at the figure who hovered above me in the darl. I gripped the handle of my baseball bat at my bedside, ready to strike! It was too dark to see the figure, but the familiar sound of someone I know all too well made me stop in mid-swing.

"TREVOR! What the hell are you doin' that for?" Wade screeched, cowering in the corner of the small bedroom. I turned on the light to see Wade. I scowled angrily.

"WADE! Why in the fuck are you here this damn early?!" I snarled. "And how did you get inside?"

"W-well I n-need some clarification about somethin'. It's about... you." Wade said, twiddling his fingers about.

I rolled my eyes. Wade was not a threat, but he could be a real pain in the ass with his simple questions.

"And you had to break and enter my home just so I can answer your questions? Geez Wade, you're worse than Ron sometimes." I sighed, letting the baseball bat fall with a soft thud. "Alright, chop chop! What's your question?"

Wade looked nervously around the room, if anyone could be listening in. "You know Trevor, it's totally okay in this day in age to feel like this..."

I looked confused. "Wade, I know it is okay to not feel guilty about dabbling into drugs, as long as you don't get caught like an idiot. We've been through this before. You're probably the one who feels like this. But not me."

Wade shook his head. "No, not that Trevor! It's just that you seem to be... disinterested in romance. You like to fuck, but do I see you with anyone? No, not since Patricia..."

I choked, feeling a mix of anger and tears flowing into my eyes. "Wade. We do not talk about her."

Wade stumbled around verbally, trying to get out the right words. "Okay, I'm sorry Trevor. I know that is a sensitive topic. Well besides you know who, and no I don't mean Voldermort from Harry Potter, but you deserve to be with someone. And hey, it don't have to be with a lady either..."

I look bewildered. "Wade, what are you trying to say?"

Wade looked even more nervous. "Okay. I'll just say it. You like that Michael guy."

"No I fucking don't, you prick!" I shouted, crossing my arms in annoyance. "What gives you the right to say that?!"

"Trevor, it's plain as day! The way you look at him. Talk to him. I know you tell each other to fuck off, but I think deep down, he knows you best. More than me. More than Ron. He ain't the cheating kind though..."

I scoffed, completely at loss of words.

"Okay, well, he did have sex with them prostitutes in Los Santos awhile back when you reunited and he and Amanda were fightin'... but isn't that just a ome night stand? Is cheating where you have actual romance with someone? I never did know..."

I wanted to hit myself in the head with my baseball bat, or tell Wade to can it. I was silent.

"Maybe you wouldn't be so angry if you had someone to love. And you have history with Michael. And I'll be your number one fan. Them haters can just light themselves on fire for all I know. Out of all the people in this world, Michael would be good for you, Trev."

For someone who isn't the brightest bulb in the shed, Wade could get deep. It was rare, but he could be like this.

"Wade, look, maybe I do like him, but he and I are just friends. He's married for fuck's sake! He don't swing that way. Unlike me, if there's a hole, I fuck it. Michael is too uptight these days. He wasn't like this back in the day. Maybe it's for the best..." I trailed off, my words growing quieter with each words.

"So are you saying you are gay, or what is it, bisexual?" Wade asked. I threw my hands up into the air.

"Maybe? I don't know! Fucking and romancing are two different things! This is too fucking early for this sexuality shit! Wade, just get out. Please. I can't."

"Trevor, it's okay. Plenty of people ain't straight. You don't have to beat yourself up about it. Out of all the people in this world, Trev, you seem to not give a damn what people say."

Wade was right, but he didn't know some things... some things I want to keep for myself... especially growing up...

"Trevor, say something! I'm trying to help you." Wade sighed. "Okay, I get it. Let you be. I'm sorry bud, I'll ask about how you are later."

Before I could protest and tell him to not go, he was out of my trailer before I could say anything.

"AaaaUUUGH!" I yelled, throwing an empty beer bottle onto the counter. It shattered into several pieces, and I didn't bother cleaning it up.

It's not like I didn't deny it. I like Michael. Hell, I even LOVE the man. I hated this pining shit. You get nowhere with it. Despite Sandy Shores being an absolute hellhole for anyone who loves and exists differently, surprisingly, the town got used to my differences.

Yeah, people would scoff and here that I was a fairy, or even worse, the F word. And no, not "fuck." I don't like saying it or even writing it out...

And the thing is: I don't care. They're all scared shitless of me, except probably for Ron and Wade. How I became friends with them is something of itself. I'm just a middle aged dude who loves to wear whatever the fuck I want, to fuck anyone or anything I want.

The thing is: Do I even know how to actually love someone? That's what bothers me the most. Not because of my sexuality, but would I feel love back from someone other than her... I feel love for Michael, but will I ever be enough for him? We are so different, and yet so similar. We are all kinds of fucked up. He actually goes to therapy, and me? Am I even worthy of someone helping me out? I only trust myself.

So yeah, maybe I don't have to hide from labels like that like Wade implied. That I don't need to be just "Trevor," or "Trevor the Methhead." I can be "Trevor the Chaotic Bisexual." Something like that.

And thinking that made me smile. An actual smile.

Before I could think any further, I heard a knock at the door.

"Wade, I know you're on the other side of the door. You are predictable as shit." I said, raising my voice loud enough for him to hear me.

A muffled voice told me "T, it's Michael. I have some bad news..."

I ran to the door and opened it up. Michael stood there, in his Dad like polo shirt, khaki bottoms, and boat shoes. His eyes looked stressed and worn out, probably from crying.

"Mikey, are you okay? You look like shit."

"That's because I feel like shit. I thought me and Amanda were okay again, but no. Just empty promises." Michael put on his sunglasses, staring down at the mixture of sand and dirt on the ground.

"Why didn't you just call me?" I asked. "Why drive miles to the middle of fucking nowhere and tell me all this?"

"Trevor! Just fucking listen!" Michael snapped. "Amanda has been cheating on me for God knows how long. With that yoga instructor."

Son of a bitch.

"And I'm going to need to crash. I don't need a hotel. I just need someone I know to be with for awhile. I have my bags packed. Can I crash your place? But this time, we aren't hiding from Madrazo and his cronies."

I opened and closed my mouth. Repeatedly.

"Please, Trevor? You still probably don't trust me fully, even if you said we're good... I just can't be alone again..."

I looked into his sunglasses, and my reflection looked almost vulnerable like. God damn it, was this a trick played by Wade? Was all of this orchestrated? No, it couldn't be. Just a fucking coincidence.

"Trevor?" Michael asked quietly. "Can I?"

"Sure. I mean, of course. Mi casa es su casa, me amigo. We're going to have to share a bed, unless you want the couch."

"Your couch is a breeding ground for disease, T. Your bed is slightly better."

"Fuck you, sugar tits. This isn't HGTV." I scoffed. "I'm not a freelance drug lord who makes millions and lives in a mansion."

Michael laughed incredulously. "Well, you are all that, but your place is beyond a bachelor pad. It's a dump."

"It's MY dump, and I have it clean enough where no one suspects a thing." I pointed my finger at his chest.

"Of multiple counts of murder. Other than that, people are terrified of you." Michael said plainly.

"Yeah, and how you are not terrified of me is a fucking miracle. Now get your bags into my house, Mikey, because we are playing house!"

Well, that's enough writing for now. This rush of energy from the drugs has worn off.

Live, Shit, Die,

-T


	3. Sémaphore (Signaling)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael and Trevor help each other out with past and present traumas. We learn more about Trevor's past. Michael gets some revolutionary news and celebrates with Trevor. Trevor admits something major to Michael. Content warnings in the chapter notes below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Hello dear readers! Welcome back to another chapter of GTI. This chapter is going to have a few major trigger warnings such as queerphobia, incest, and implied molestation involving Trevor as a minor). If you are not comfortable reading that section, you can skip the flashback written in italics. Thank you for reading, and let me know what you think in the comments below. Cheers, mes amis! x

Dear Diary,  
  
Michael's been an emotional wreck. But who wouldn't be? His wife decided that yoga instructor with an ass fetish was much more interesting than my dear old Sugar Tits. That's what happens when you live in a place such as Los Santos. You have men wanting to be in shape, and compare each other to see who's more "manly" or some bullshit. All I see is plastic surgery and vanity. I have heard mean things he has said to Michael, and I have him suggestions on how to get back at him.  
  
"You can always put laxatives in his smoothies." I suggested one night as a TV commercial persuaded viewers to try goat yoga, which reminded Michael of him.  
  
"T, I want to do nothing to him." He sighed, taking a swig of his rum.  
  
"Really? I could totally scar him for life." I sing-songed.  
  
Michael's jaw clenched, and that's when I shut up. He just stared at the TV, eyes barely human looking. I got off the couch, and went to the bathroom and took a piss.  
  
***  
  
A few days later, Michael got tired of moping and drinking heavier than he usually does and took off God knows where. I had a few hours to myself. As much as Michael means to me, I hated him seeing him out of his element. I tried to do everything I could, but it still didn't feel like enough.  
  
I heard the mail truck come around my place, and I heard a soft thud near the door. Excited, I swung open my door and saw the package I ordered on the dirt ground. I picked it up, and looked frantically around, making sure no one was watching. The coast clear, I darted back inside, and put the package on my unmade bed. I was giddy!  
  
Taking my pocket knife, I tore open the package carefully and flung the knife aside. Taking the plastic sealed bag off my package, I opened up to see my order.  
  
In my hands was a red rockabilly dress with tiny black outlined skulls on the red fabric. In the middle was a black bowtie. I looked at it, smiling. I got it custom sized so it could fit me right. Then the black sheer headscarf glistened towards me. It matched my outfit so well, and I was excited to try it on.  
  
Taking my clothes off, save for my underwear, I carefully put on the dress as it were a valued drug parcel, making sure not to tug too hard. I then expertly zipped up the dress from the back. Smoothing the dress all out, I looked at myself in my dusty and dirty old mirror.  
  
I saw another side of me. I saw myself, and he smiled back at me. I took the sheer headscarf and gently arranged it like a 1950s Vinewood actress. I twirled around, giddy like. Whoever said dudes can't wear dresses is a fucker. I felt glamorous. Gender roles be damned.  
  
I stepped out into the living area of the trailer, twirling around some more. I thought about the garter belt with my gun holder. It would feel neat under my dress. As I was about to get it on myself, the door swung open, and I froze.  
  
_"Trevor, what is my dress doing on you?" My mother said, slurring her words. I panicked, I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to say. My mom and I are the same dress size, and I was curious._  
  
_ "Ma, I-I wanted to take a silly picture of me in this and show my friends. That's all!" I studdered, thinking of a believable lie. "They would laugh along with me!"_  
  
_ She advanced herself closer to me."I would believe this Trevor, but this ain't the first time I caught you in a dress. I caught you using lipstick before. If I wanted a daughter, I would have one by now. I ain't raising no queer."_  
  
_ Queer... the word stung. I clenched my jawline. I felt so small, so helpless._  
  
_ "You're a boy, Trevor. You're going to end up fucking women. No woman wants a man who dresses like a queer."_  
  
_ My ears rang, as they do when I get scared or angry. What did she know?_  
  
_ "I like my clientele to be masculine, and that's how the world should work. Men fuck me because they are masculine. They are tough. Do you think your girlfriend or wife will like you wearing lipstick and dresses?" My mother raised her voice, and I stood silent._  
  
_ "No..." I said quietly, looking at the floor._  
  
_ My mother got down on her knees and looked up at me. "Trevor, let's get you out of my dress, and let me make a man out of you..."_  
  
_ Sometime later that night, my mother passed out on the couch, both from drink and pills. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, the moon hitting the dirty thing. I couldn't say no to my mom, or she would really hurt me. Sometimes she wouldn't let me eat. Or worse: She took pictures of me in makeup or dresses or whatever and show them to her hooker friends to laugh and make fun of me._  
  
_ Once I would turn eighteen, I thought to myself, once I graduate from high school, I'll become a pilot for the Royal Canadian Air Force. Have steady money. Live a better life. I would run away after getting my diploma and my personal documents and go. Flee. Lord knows how much I know how to survive already, and I'm almost sixteen..._  
  
_ I took a swig of whiskey I had hidden carefully in one of the bathroom cabinets and I sobbed quietly on the dirty bathroom floor._  
  
Michael stared at me. I instinctively backed up to the wall, ready for anything bad to happen. It was nighttime, and all I could see was Michael in front of me, illuminated by the aged lamplight.  
  
I breathed heavier, my heart rate increased. I expected Michael to strike and yell at me, like my mother did when she caught me like this at home.  
  
But in that moment where my face showed my complete fears, he knew exactly what was happening in my mind, and softly came up to me. Not touching me, he said softly:  
  
"She's not here to hurt you anymore, T. You are safe, and you look wonderful."  
  
I collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.  
  
"Come hug me?" I cried, extending my arms out.  
  
Without skipping a beat, Michael got onto the floor, and pulled me into a comforting embrace. I rested my head on his shoulder, and he hugged me back, in silence. He let me say what I needed to, but he knew exactly why I was upset. I just cried, and Michael sat there, hugging me for God knows how long, staying silent, but never letting go.  
  
Later that night, I had hung up my dress in my closet, and got into my usual underwear as pajamas. Michael made sure to feed me, even though it was diner food and cola.  
  
"No alcohol for you tonight." He said sternly.  
  
"Okay, buzzkill." I rolled my eyes.  
  
"I mean it. PTSD sucks, and substances aren't going to help you, especially right after an episode."  
  
"Caffiene is still considered a drug." I retorted.  
  
"Yeah, but an accepted one." Michael replied back. "It's the closest thing you'll drink to water."  
  
I hummed in slight annoyance, but he did have a point. I scarfed down my burger and fries, and drank my cola with an intense need.  
  
Michael nodded in approval. "You see, my point exactly. Even in our North Yankton days, I knew how to help you in your times of mental trouble."  
  
I took a long sip of cola. "That's when you were free of them. And then Los Santos happened, and bam! You're still in a mid-life crisis."  
  
Michael sat down next to me, eyes meeting mine. "You aren't wrong. Except I'm getting help. Maybe I should direct you to help as well, considering that past child abuse still affects you like this."  
  
"Mikey, I'm too broken." I said quietly, thumbing the styrofoam cup of my drink.  
  
"The fuck you aren't. This isn't some religious conversion. You'll get help from a neutral, third party. You can be open. And they can help you with your anger issues, and your PTSD. And all the other shit. Please Trevor, I care about you. I'm not going to see my best friend suffer because he's too fucking stubborn and refuses to get to get help because of x, y, and z." Michael reached out for my shoulder, and squeezed it lightly.  
  
I smiled and said "You sound like a fucking shrink lecturing at a university."  
  
"But am I wrong?" Michael replied, shaking his head.  
  
"If I say no, will you jump for joy?"  
  
"No, but I will be happy that out of everyone in this God forsaken state, you are the one to help Trevor fucking Phillips." I laughed.  
  
"Well, I've done worse." Michael teased, and I hit him with the couch pillow.  
  
"I can be stubborn. And difficult. But despite me talking shit about this for giggles and to downplay the seriousness of it all, you really are my "ride or die." Jimmy taught me that phrase." I said.  
  
"Ride or die...?" Michael asked, looking puzzled.  
  
I sighed melodramatically. "You fucking old fart. It means that I'll be there for you unconditionally."  
  
"Oh, I thought it meant something else, more perverted." Michael replied, turning a little red in his face.  
  
"And you thought I was the most sexually deviant out of you and Franklin. Shut the fuck up." I sighed, rolling my eyes.  
  
"Well, I'm glad to see that my other platonic half is back to his old, grumpy self some more." Michael grinned.  
  
I scoffed. "If I'm grumpy, then you're depressy. Now go and finish your burger, Porkchop."  
  
***  
Michael woke me up the next day. He looked unusually happy.  
  
"Mikey, you look like me whenever I get major bank from one of my shipments." I yawned, trying to resist falling back asleep.  
  
"Amanda and I are getting a divorce. It's mutual. Trevor, I'll be free! Fucking free!" Michael sang, his arms extended in freedom.  
  
"Wow... the last time you had a marriage dip, you missed her like crazy. Now, you're actually happy? You're fucking odd."  
  
"She's too materialistic. Always has her interests in mind over mine. I felt we had to be a perfect couple, but no. You know how she is, T. She won't change her ways, but only for the worse." I explained. "Come on, let's go to Del Perro Pier. I feel like having fun today. To celebrate!"  
  
"We have to go all the way there to celebrate? Why not here in the middle of nowhere? On my turf?" I whined. "Mikey, can we celebrate here instead?"  
  
"If we weren't here all the damn time, we would. But I want to get out in the sun. Enjoy myself. Besides, you need a day off from TPI." Michael replied back.  
  
"Can I wear my dress?" I asked.  
  
"Of fucking course. Why would I tell you what to wear?" Michael asked, a bit hurt from my question.  
  
"It's noting personal, I want to coordinate outfits with you." I sprung up to my feet, and went through Mikey's belongings. He had a red floral Dad button down shirt, and some light black khaki shorts. I grabbed his white tank top and his boating shoes.  
  
"Wear this." I said, laying out his daily outfit.  
  
Michael's eyebrows lifted. "You didn't tell me that being a fashion stylist was on your Life Invader page. Different career than you know, smuggling drugs and wiping out crooked drug dealers and government officials."  
  
"Fuck off, Sugar Tits. I know your style. You aren't that special." I rolled my eyes, totally downplaying his significance to me.  
  
"Thanks, T. I can totally rely on you for my self assurance." Michael stated sarcastically, stripping down to his naked self. He looked at me dead in the eye. "What? I showered last night, dumbass. What do you know about hygiene?"  
  
I studdered softly, undetected by Michael. "Me? Hygiene? Never really known him. Well I gotta slip on my outfit, maybe brush my teeth..."  
  
"Trevor, stop fucking around and let's just be loose!" Michael gasped in slight exasperation.  
  
"Yes, Sir." I rolled my eyes, deadpanning my response. "Now if there's clowns, can I beat them up?"  
  
"No, but we can avoid them." Michael said plainly.  
  
***  
  
It was a warm and sunny day at the Pier. The wind wasn't too bad, and the sounds of waves crashing on the shore and seagulls crying out for food told me I was in the right place.  
  
Michael and I walked close to one another, and despite some of the asshole looks we got from people, I didn't care. I was feeling on Cloud Nine. We got a couple of cold beers each from a beer fountain stand, and at most it gave us a light buzz.  
  
"Mikey, let's go on the roller coaster!" I giggled, the beer activating more of my playful nature.  
  
"As you wish, T." He said, my reflection of myself embedded in his sunglasses.  
  
After the rollercoaster and going on the giant ferris wheel, we strolled on the boardwalk to find a game booth with giant stuffed animals. A big teddy bear looked straight at me, and feeling the fun of today's events, I asked Michael a question.  
  
"You want me to win you that giant bear?" He asked me. "You know, I can still throw pretty well." He flexed his right arm. It still was pretty toned and muscular, even at our age.  
  
"Fuck yeah, Mikey! Mr. Strawberry Jam needs a friend."  
  
"Anything for you, T." He said to me, smiling.  
  
He paid the nonchalant booth attendant, and after successfully knocking down all of the heavy bottles, the teddy bear was mine.  
  
"You know, man, you're pretty jacked. What's your secret?" The attendant looked in awe of Michael's arms.  
  
Michael stared at the attendant with his sunglasses. "Squeezing the life out of my enemies." He said quietly and sinisterly. The attendant looked kind of weirded out, and gave Michael the giant teddy bear.  
  
"Uhh. Okay then, sir. Here's your bear. Hope you and your partner have a good day."  
  
Michael looked confused. "T isn't my partner. My partner in crime, yes."  
  
I interjected. "He doesn't fuck me in my ass literally if that's what you mean."  
  
The attendant looked really shocked, and not sure what to say next. "Then my apologies. Not to be too weird, but you seem to act like one in my eyes. But that's not my business. Have a good day."  
  
I took the bear from the attendant, and once Michael and I walked away, I heard the attendant say:  
  
"Yes, totally a couple. As if my own gay ass couldn't tell."  
  
We stayed at the Pier until nighttime, and seeing the sun set when drinking with your best friend is something made for the movies. Michael looked kissed from the sun, knowing his tendencies to enjoy the outdoors. I knew come morning, I would look like a lobster.  
  
Michael seemed a lot more relaxed. I too was relaxed. I hadn't had much fun with anyone, not doing crime, in a very long time. It was like time stood still, and I never wanted this moment to end.  
  
"Come on T, we have a long drive home." Michael said, holding out his keys.  
  
"No, we can stay where Wade lives. He doesn't mind visitors. He's just down in Vespucci Beach, not too far. Maybe we can swing by Franklin's weed shop and say hi too if he's there." I begged. I was too tired to drive a long way home.  
  
"Alright, fine. Then come on."  
  
We got into the car, and stuffed my giant bear in the backseat. I slid on the passenger seat. As the car purred to life, and we exited the Pier, I turned my head to Michael.  
  
"I had a lot of fun today. Do you know that?"  
  
Michael took his sunglasses off, and glanced at me and then the road. "As did I. You forget you can do fun shit like that than getting chased by the cops after a successful robbery."  
  
"Or if you slaughter a drug ring that seems to multiply even if you weed then out." I replied happily.  
  
"Well, I wouldn't consider that to be "fun shit," but T, you've always been an enigma." Michael sighed. "You're fucking crazy and deranged, but you keep me on my toes, that's for damn sure."  
  
"Sorry that I am not your stereotypical kind Canadian. I'm not an overeager doormat. And yes, that is a joke only Canadians can say to one another. Franklin taught me about reclaiming slurs."  
  
"T, I don't think "overeager Canadian doormat" is a slur. It doesn't historically oppress and cause violence to a targeted minority group. Just saying."  
  
"So it's not a slur then?"  
  
"No, T. An unoriginal insult, but not a slur."  
  
Michael pulled up to Wade's place where Floyd and Mary what's her fucking name used to live before I took care of business. We exited the car, and I grabbed Michael's shoulder and led him to the alleyway between the shops on Vespucci beach and the empty, aged homes.  
  
"Where are we going, T? Are you going to kill me?" Michael whispered, getting pissed.  
  
"Listen to me you big oaf. I need to fucking say this to you, or else I will regret not saying it to you."  
  
"Make it quick then."  
  
I tried to make the words come out of my mouth. _Michael, I like you. It took you this fucking long to feel what I feel for you? Do you even feel hot for men?_  
  
"God fucking dammit!" I seethed, about to hit my head violently against the concrete wall.  
  
"TREVOR!" Michael pinned me to the wall, unable to move. "Stop this madness for one fucking second and just tell me what you need to fucking say!"  
  
Before he could say anything else, I pulled him into a harsh kiss. Michael's eyes were wide, but then... softened?  
  
All I could register was that Michael pulled me closer, and kissed me deeply. His taste of beer mixed in with fine tobacco was enough to make me aroused. I can't believe this stoic fucker has goddamn feelings for me!  
  
I whimpered slightly, and groaned in Michael's ear.  
  
"Suck me off, Sugar Tits..." I lifted my dress up and dropped my underwear to reveal my erect cock.  
  
Michael didn't say anything, just a deep grunt as he sucked me off, and I didn't hold back my moans.  
  
Michael's mouth worked wonders, and I was moaning and mewling loudly. My heavy eyes were clouded with lust. Michael got rougher and knew I was enjoying his mouth.  
  
We didn't know who came out to check out the strange noises behind their store, but once I heard their voices, Michael and I were sure to be interrogated and asked so many questions. And to be fair, I needed to ask Michael so many questions.  
  
"Look homie, you know I always got your back... and WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TWO DOING HERE, YOU OLD FUCKS!?"  
  
Michael took my cock out of his mouth and looked up at Franklin alongside Lamar sheepishly. I looked at them with a mixture of annoyance and surprise.  
  
_Los Santos is really a small place sometines..._  
  
This is getting too long, and I'll leave you all wondering what will happen next. My hand is cramping.  
  
-T


	4. Crashing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the end of Sémaphore, Trevor and Michael get a surprise visit and have their usual fights. Will Trevor and Michael make up, or go back to square one?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, mes amis!
> 
> Another day, another chapter! The more I write this, the more it becomes a dramedy, and that is okay. After all, it's a parody of My Immortal with an original plot, post C ending. It also recently snowed, so I had some major North Yankton thoughts.
> 
> Make sure to follow my Tumblr, laviedeavantgarde, if you haven't done so already.
> 
> Now let's get back to everyone's favorite criminals.
> 
> Cheers! x

_Los Santos is really a small place sometimes..._

Franklin and Lamar look surprised. And that was a huge understatement.

"M! T! The fuck is this?" Lamar gasped.

"Man, I know two dudes blowing each other is common, but you two are the least type of dudes to be goin' at it." Franklin, the calmer of the two, said.

Michael couldn't say a word. He just turned beet red. Out of the two of us, tact was something I never really had. In this case, my lack thereof was to my advantage.

"Look Franklin, Lamar, I kissed him first. Then he kissed me. Then we got hot and heavy and next thing I know, I'm fucking him balls deep in his mouth!" I explained as I pulled up my underwear. "You two assholes are a bunch of cockblockers."

Lamar held his hands up in defense. "Look homie, if you saw two of your dudes sucking each other off out of the damn blue, you would react like me and Franklin."

I put my arm around Lamar. "Listen, my young lad. You haven't seen everything. You are still a young tot in crime. Gang wars and drug dealing? Elementary! Uncle T's an expert. Have you seen a dead body up close, Lamar? It's quite beautiful and lovely to chop-"

"ENOUGH! E-FUCKING-NOUGH TREVOR!" Michael snapped, tearing me away from Lamar. Lamar looked slightly intimidated and stepped to the side. "This. Is. Not. Helping. ANYTHING."

"Hey man, Franklin owes me five bucks." Lamar stated nonchalantly. Michael and I whipped our heads at him, in shock.

"Why does he need to give you five bucks?" I asked confusedly.

"Well, you know, me and F made a bet that... well.." Lamar trailed, trying to hold back a laugh. He sucked in his breath as to control himself.

"A bet!? A fucking bet!? For what!?" Michael raised his voice with each exclamation.

"You see, if your homeboy sucked you off first, I'd give F five bucks. If you gave Old Saner Man here head, F would have to do my laundry for a month." Lamar said plainly. "Although, I thought it was for two months..."

Michael looked like he could rip Lamar's limbs off. I smiled like a goddamn idiot. Franklin looked like he was about to get his ass whooped by Michael and prepared to whoop Lamar's ass, and by the way Mikey looked at Lamar, well that wasn't a shocker given the situation. And Lamar, well he realized his error and looked uneasy.

"Michael. Trevor. I just agreed to this stupid and idiotic bet so Lamar could shut the hell up. He was all like 'Your two mentors really be like your daddies you never had growing up. It's only time before they snap and get nasty with each other.' and I'm like 'Dude, Trevor cares too much about killing and meth and Michael is a straight family man who listens to White Dad Music. Not that type.'" Franklin explained, glaring at Lamar. "Your foolish ass got both of us in trouble, and I don't need your goddamn five dollars!"

"I never knew we had such adoring fans!" I smiled and clapped my hands excitedly. "See Mikey, they care about us, in their own dumbass ways."

"Yeah man," Lamar went on to say. "I'm not saying it's bad or nothing. But you two act like boyfriends."

Michael just glared at Lamar and looked disappointed at Franklin.

"Come on, Michael. We're sorry. _Lamar_ is sorry. We'll laugh over this soon." Franklin apologized, but Michael looked agitated and did not say a word.

I went to Mikey, cautiously. "Hey, I don't feel bad. Shit happens, friends walk in at bad times..."

Michael then snapped. "Of course YOU don't feel bad. Guess what guys! TREVOR doesn't feel bad about looking like a goddamn fucking FOOL in public! Oh, we need to cause attention because you, Trevor, are an attention whore. Do you give a shit about what I may endure? You don't have a soon to be ex wife and children. You are free to do whatever you want because no one is around your life permanently these days. Maybe that's a good thing, because your reputation is shit! Because you are a little shit!"

Franklin and Lamar stood silent, surprised. They had never seen Michael so angry, so upset.

"Mikey, I-"

He pointed a finger at me. "DON'T Mikey me! You are LUCKY that only Franklin and Lamar saw us. Jesus Christ Trevor! You are such a goddamn fool. Get your own ride home."

"Michael, please-"

"Just get away from me for several hours. I can't be in a vehicle with you right now." He said lowly, his knuckles white from his clenched fists.

"Mikey, they're kids. You'll laugh about this soon enough." I said, unusually calm. I usually was the one enraged. Oh how the tables have turned...

"Jesus Christ Trevor. You have no shame." Michael sighed as he stomped to his car, nearly knocking Lamar on his ass. Michael turned to Franklin. "Tell Lamar here to cool it before I beat his ass."

Michael entered his car, the car purring to life. He then sped off, tires squeaking and the engine revving away. He got smaller as he went back to God knows where in downtown Los Santos.

"Yo man, maybe what I did was not right." Lamar admitted, looking at the ground, uneasy.

"Kid, I ain't mad at you. Hell, I wondered myself when Michael and I would, you know, have that experience. I think Mikey is just overwhelmed. He's going through hell, and I made it worse. And now, I am stuck here without a fucking car." I sighed, kicking some loose gravel from the beaten down road.

"Dude, I own that cab place. I can get you one on the house." Franklin offered, trying to comfort me. "I know you can make it on your own for a night, but you shouldn't."

"Thanks, Franklin, but I'm good. I'll just wander, I guess..." I trailed off, walking towards a spontaneous destination without saying bye.

I eyed a convenience mart, worn down from the neglect and years of the city ignoring the slums of Los Santos. Entering in the store, I smelled the usual slushie aroma, mixed in with cheap, overheated coffee and pizza that only taste good when on something.

Grabbing a cheap bottle of bourbon and honey roasted peanuts, I walked zombie like to the cashier, who looked disinterested at this time of night. At this time of night and at this hour, drunk and drug induced asshats crawl to these convenience marts to buy overpriced booze and snacks, and if you were a hooker: condoms and maybe a cheap pregnancy test.

I slammed money down from my wallet, muttering "Keep the change" to the older cashier who seemed to enjoy my quiet and no-nonsense behaivor.

_Funny, because I am the town's idiot._

The mart wasn't too far from the beach, so I walked to the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. There were permanent beach tent gazebos that lined Vespucci Beach. I found one finally that wasn't occupied by the homeless or passed out partygoers, and sat on the sand. Taking the cap off the bottle, I took a swig of it while tearing the corner of the peanut bag and popping peanuts into my mouth.

I stared out into the dark sea. At that moment, I felt so small. I felt a part of myself not there. I missed Michael. Hell, I needed him.

Taking another swig, memories flooded. In the North Yankton days, Michael was someone who was wild. Not like me, of course, but he had what the kids say: big dick energy. We robbed left and right. We were unstoppable. Those nights spent in seedy motels, drinking and smoking (and snorting for me), fucking prostitutes left and right were some of my fondest memories.

_"Hey T... T!" Michael said, his eyes and face beaming. "Look what I got!"_

_We were in our early 20s in the early 90s. Michael just robbed a small convenience marts just outside of where he and I were laying low. While not a big score by any means, it was one of the many instances where he would rob solo._

_"Michael! Fuck yeah! Shower me in money!" I sang, twirling my already tipsy ass around him. As the dollar bills danced to the motel floor, I pulled Michael in for a hug. He held me tight, patting my back._

_"I am fucking on top of the world! I got a nice amount of bank, and I'm with my best partner in crime. Fucking A!" Michael grabbed me by the waist and pulled me up into the air. I laughed and held onto his neck._

_"Mikey, you're awfully in a touchy mood. Maybe we should get a lady or two to celebrate?" I asked while Michael put me down, teasing him on his affection towards me._

_"Nah, I'm good. I just need a good smoke, good liquor, and my best friend at my side." Michael smiled, this time a little more brazen with his stare._

_I held his favorite pack of cigarettes and bottle in my hands, grinning. "You can't beat this."_

_Michael took them from my hands. Taking a cigarette in one hand from the box, he placed it carefully on his lips and took his lighter to the end of it. With a spark, he expertly lit the cigarette and took a smooth puff. Smoke danced in the room._

_I stood there, mesmerized. I knew I was in love with my best friend. He was everything to me. Loyalty is rare, and with Michael, I knew he was there for me. Nothing could ever have torn us apart._

_"T, you're unusually quiet." Michael stated. The room was dark, save for the moonlight that creeped into the motel's window blinds and the street lights. I could tell Michael was there by the faint red glow at the end of his cigarette._

_I chuckled nervously, pacing around the room. I could not tell him. Nope. Bad idea, T. I had realized wearing my tight boxer shorts were a bad idea because well, Little Trevor started to get excited..._

_I slowly got on the bed, and carefully got under the covers. I felt Michael's eyes even in the dark. It both scared yet aroused me._

_"Yeah, well I am just exhausted from the day. That's all." I lied. With Michael, I was a bad liar. He could tell._

_"Bullshit. Just two minutes ago, you were dancing like a cheerleader. Now you're acting weird. Trevor, are you on something new?" Michael asked, wanting an honest answer from me._

_"No, Mikey! Shut up, I just need some sleep." I huffed, dramatically flipping on my side to signal I was going to bed. "It's two fucking am in the morning!"_

_"T, you know robbing isn't a daylight activity..." Michael scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You are really a dumbass sometimes. I love you, but you are a dumbass."_

_I felt my groin stir, and I was very tempted to rub it softly, telling myself that once he sleeps, I can finish the job. I bit my lip. Michael was attractive when he robbed places by himself. He got more confident, and boisterous._

_Dominant._

_"If you love me as you stated, show me." I looked at him with playful eyes. Michael looked confused._

_"Show you? What, you want cash?" He asked, looking at me oddly._

_"No! Goddamn it, no! Just show me your love, as a friend." I stammered, squeezing my legs tightly._

_"By the way you are dressed and acting, you certainly are pent up." Michael smirked. He extinguished his cigarette in the ash tray and swaggered toward me. He sat at the edge of the bed, eying me down. "You in tight underwear, being doting, come on T, you don't fool me."_

_I sprang up and looked at him, my heart beating and my hands sweating. Does he know by now?_

_"You want a male prostitute, huh?" Michael said lowly. "I can certainly arrange that."_

_I sat there, staring at Michael intently. My eyes smoldered._

_"No, Porkchop. I don't." I said evenly, my eyes baring my soul to him._

_Michael leaned in closer to me, the breath of bourbon filling my senses. "That's too bad that there's none around this area, because I'd love to see you get hot and heavy with a man..."_

_Did I hear this right? Michael Townley. Wanted to see me with a male hooker. It seemed unreal. Like I was on a very bad trip._

_"Okay, yeah, anyone with a hole is good for me." I admitted. "I just didn't want to make you turned off that your friend is not just into women."_

_Michael scoffed. "T, I knew. I just didn't want to be an ass and ask. But yeah, you need a man's touch for sure..."_

_I then did a very bold thing._

_I uncovered myself with the sheets and I turned to Michael, half naked and at full mast. He looked surprised, and he trailed his eyes down to where I needed him the most._

_"Michael, this sounds crazy, and you're tipsy, and I'm high and, and..." I studdered._

_"Shut the fuck up already." Michael groaned and leaned himself over me, kissing me._

_Was this fucking happening?!_

_Michael took my boxers and took them off with his teeth. He looked down at my aching erection, and back up to me, nervous._

_"I haven't, well..." He said nervously._

_"Just please get me off. I trust you..." My voice rose in pitch, baring everything to him in the mostly dark room._

_Michael took in a breath, then his head dipped down to my erection._

_Bliss._

You can say Michael and I were... fuck buddies. We cared deeply for each other. Yet, he ended up with Amanda. And had kids with her. Because that was and still is socially acceptable at large. I knew he loved her, but us? I don't think he was ready. Which left me unnecessarily pining over the snakey bastard.

Would we resurface, anew? Or would we be buried in time?

The questions bubbled and then fizzed out, mainly because of the alcohol. I was about to sleep on the beach until I heard him.

"Get up, Trevor. We're going home." Michael said, lifting me up and stabilizing me on my shoulder. I swayed a little bit.

"Mikey!" I slurred. "You came back!"

"Well, Franklin and Lamar were in the area at the weed shop. They saw you going to one of the tents. They kept blowing up my phone, telling me that out of everyone, you need me. Be pissed all you want, but getting arrested for public intoxication is a rookie crime. And I want you to be safe, you dunderhead." Michael said matter-of-factly.

I had a plastered smile. But then I grew angry.

"Aren't you the one who blamed me for what we did?" I sneered.

"Yes, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for always making you out to be the one who started things. I'm trying not to be much of an asshat. I blew it, big time..." Michael sighed.

"Well, you didn't blow your load in my mouth..." I giggled.

Michael sighed and rolled his eyes. "No, I didn't. But I shouldn't have blown up like that. I'll apologize to Lamar too, although he should apologize as well for being immature. He's got growing up to do."

I hiccuped and tried to collect my words. "Wow, us grown men talking about our feelings and not resorting to violence! This thearpy tool is wild."

Michael guided me into the car, and I entered the car, buckling up semi gracefully.

Michael clicked his mouth and shook his head. "You know, even when you're nursing a bottle, you follow car safety laws."

I whipped my head, a little too fast. I winced.

"I can't help that Dora the Explorer taught me that..." I whined.

"Do I want to know why you ended up watching a kid's cartoon?" Michael said, eyeing my drunken self.

"I got high, and nothing was on TV that was good. So Dora it was." I exclaimed. "Watching Dora on a high is something else entirely..."

"T, you're fucking mad."

"Wow, you don't say!" I retorted. "Just get me to a warm bed so I can wallow in self pity and go to sleep."

Michael saluted me. "Aye, aye, captain. You probably watched SpongeBob high too."

I held up my hands, defeated. "Busted."

Michael grinned. "Fucking called it."

I don't remember much after that. All I knew I was at his empty mansion. Michael helped me out of the car and into the house, guiding me to the spare bedroom upstairs. Once I hit the mattress, I was out like a light.

I woke up with a killer migraine. On the endstand, a bottle of overpriced, hipster water and strong painkillers were set aside for me. There was a note, and I read it.

_T,_

_I know how much you need your hangover pancakes, so I made you some. Come downstairs when you read this. It's nice cooking for someone, even if I am utter shit for a chef. I didn't realize how much I missed this. It was different when we had to hide out from Madrazo and company, but I actually need you more than ever these days..._

_-Michael_

The corny, cliché that is Michael Townley, I mean, De Santa, still exists in him.

Perhaps this is a new start in our lives...

Well, I'm pretty sure I wrote a goddamn essay. Oddly enough, writing helps me think. Hmm, this self-care shit may actually work out.

Okay, enough writing. Feeling kinda cute, maybe I'll get high tonight. Who knows.

Fuck the system,

-T


	5. Tiptoeing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael and Trevor spend the following morning together after the night's events. Both men contemplate their current lives and Trevor encounters a colorful character.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all,
> 
> It's been awhile since I last updated, and I am sorry. Mainly it's been trying to write this chapter the way I needed it to be. Also, real life has been a factor too. The 2019 holiday season in retail gave me less time to create the story, since I worked a lot during that time.
> 
> Fortunately, my writer's block has faded once more, and I am back to regularly scheduled work hours. I also got accepted into graduate school! I am so excited to get my MA English degree starting this fall, like I talk about this to my partner all. the. time. She adores it!
> 
> Anyway, here is the much awaited chapter for GTI, and I hope you enjoy it! Give kudos if you haven't already, leave a comment, and bookmark this fic so you don't miss a single chapter.
> 
> I will be adding more chapters as I can write with satisfaction and with regularity, given that my writer's block doesn't resurface as it did for about three months.
> 
> Stay reading and writing, mes amis!

Dear Diary,

Michael and I have been unusually affectionate. Not that dudely shit where he and I constantly tell each other to fuck off but actually mean well. But actual affection from a Hallmark movie or some cheesy shit like that.

I was in the living room with Tracey the other day while Michael was out getting takeout for dinner. Tracey was one of the few people in Michael's life who would actually visit. I knew she wanted her mom and Michael to work things out, that she's used to them arguing and bitching at each other. Deep down, I think she just says that because she is scared of the unknown.

She made me listen to a Taylor Swift song.

"Trevor, I know you hate anything popular in music..." she went on, thumbing her left braid, "but you may like this song..."

Tracey is the daughter I never had, so of course I would listen to what she wanted me to listen to. Doesn't mean I'll like it.

Tracey took her iFruit phone and went on her Fruit Music app and played Taylor Swift's "Look What You Made Me Do." As she set the phone on the living room table, she looked up at me, smiling.

"You might relate to this song."

I did. Sure her music is absolute garbage, but I couldn't help but like it! Revenge songs are the best, especially Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats." You don't know how many times I actually slashed tires and wrote... interesting words on the front seats of cars.

I pursed my lips and nodded. "If this doesn't sound like your dad and I, then I don't know what else would be. Although, we're cool now."

Tracey beamed, her youthful eyes glimmering. "I'm so glad you and Daddy are, because everyone needs a Trevor in their lives."

"Well, not always, but I appreciate the sentiment, Tracey." I said realistically.

"That's so crazy to say that! You are always the life of the party, and you spoiled me as a kid. You let me do whatever I wanted to when you would babysit me and Jimmy. You were and always the good cop." She explained, her voice bubbly and excited as always.

I laughed. "Oh, wait until your dad and mom hear that. You see? You turned out just fine. You're in college for acting and performance, and you don't have to worry about student debt and loans. As for Jimmy... well he's got time."

Tracey grinned and looked at me mischievously. "Trevor, are you saying that I'm your favorite?"

I winked. "Don't tell Jimmy that, although you have more growing to do yourself, Tracey."

She smiled and gave me a hug, and I held her tight. "I knew it! And yeah, I'm trying to be more down to earth and less clueless about things. You know, a glow up!"

After she said that, she released the hug. I put my hand on her shoulder and shook my head. "You know, I'd say improvement, but I'm not hip and young anymore. But more so than your dad."

She giggled and protested. "Oh come on now! Daddy is doing better these days! You gotta admit that."

I shook my head indifferently. "We'll see about that, Tracey."

Her phone buzzed with a notification, and she looked to see what it was. Her face lit up.

"Oh great! My friends are just about to pick me up for a night of partying! Well I gotta go, and I'll see ya!" She skipped to the front of the house, humming in delight as I heard her fade in the distance. Then I heard Michael's voice from the foyer.

"Bye, Trace! Don't let those bastards fuck with you again, or T and I are gonna teach them a lesson!" Michael shouted so Tracey could hear him. I heard his footsteps approach the living room, and put the takeout bags down on the coffee table.

"I hope you don't mind takeout from Let's Taco About It."

I looked at the bags, my tastebuds already dancing. "Michael, you are finding great local spots to eat. Are you sure you aren't a hipster?" 

He laughed incredulously, taking his taco orders from the bag. "We get it catered to the studio, so that's a negative. I know how much you don't like the corporate joints."

I got my order from the bag, feeling the warmth of my two gigantic tacos in my hands, and plopped down onto the sofa. I stared at Michael.

"Well, I prefer not to go there because those are joints you go to high on something or drunk off cheap liquor. If I want great food, you better believe I'll be sober to remember it."

Michael joined me on the sofa, tacos in hand. He bit into one, his face making a face he typically reserves in... certain situations.

"Funny Mikey, I thought you'd enjoy more of a taquito these days instead of a taco." I smirked at him. It was easy to fuck with him. I knew what buttons to push.

I saw his eyes bug out and he tried not to choke on his food. Once he swallowed his bite of food, he whipped his head towards me, looking visibly annoyed.

"T, just shut the fuck up and enjoy your food. You ordered tacos too, so can it." Michael growled, pissed off.

"You're adorable when you get annoyed, Mikey." I sing-songed. "Deal with it."

Michael turned on the remote to the T.V. and turned it on the classic movie channel. Some black and white movie played while we ate in relative silence. I wasn't too engrossed in the movie because my tacos were the star of the show. Unlike some other taco joints, the toilet wasn't the supporting actor.

Once I finished my meal, I put the dirty tin foil in the bag, and let myself relax in the dimly lit room. I noticed Michael was done too, and we were sitting too far apart. I decided to scoot closer to him, and he didn't move.

"Trevor?" He broke the silence, turning his head towards me.

I looked back at him, his eyes staring at mine. "Yes, Michael?"

"Look, I'm sorry for the way I acted at Vespucci Beach after... the incident." Michael sighed, his face turning a light red.

"You can say blowjob, Mikey. It won't kill you." I lightly gave him a playful shove on his chest.

"Okay, blowjob. I'm sorry I acted like a fucking prick then. I just... got scared, you know?" Michael said in a low, monotone voice.

I laughed, the brashness of my voice made him jump some. "Michael Townley- De Santa, scared? Who the fuck possessed you? You sure as hell aren't the man I used to know."

Michael looked pained, a little perplexed. "Well, for one, the paps. If anyone saw, we'd be on Weazel News and Amanda would get mad that you out of all people would be giving me head. My reputation as a movie producer would sink. We aren't young and hungry criminals anymore, T. We're the old ones. Franklin and Lamar are new blood. They're the young and hungry ones. Hell, if you ask Lamar if he wants to take a score, he gets a hard on. I'm done with the criminal life, T. You know this. I want a new start."

"Michael, Michael. Just because you're getting old and a wee more pudgy doesn't mean you don't need to be a bore. You were so full of pent up rage then, and you took it out on our victims. Your controlled wild side plus my roulette behavior made us unstoppable. Okay, you don't want to rob from stores and banks anymore? Fine. The boys and I will do that shit for you."

Michael sighed, feeling like his words were not being heard. "Trevor, you and I will still be friends, but we won't do scores anymore. I have other priorities right now. How I make money is _ legal _ and gets me positive fame. You could too. Weed is legal in San Andreas. You could grow weed, distribute it to Franklin and Lamar-"

I laughed a deep and hollow laugh. "Trade meth for some weed shit? I make meth because it makes more, and it hits way harder than weed. Thanks but no thanks, Michael. I am perfectly content with life, thank you very much."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Okay, Trevor. My apologies for trying to get you to have a better life going for you."

I extended my arms out in frustration. He wasn't listening to me!

"My life," I began "is going just _ peachy _. We took out some bad apples, and got major cash into our accounts via Lester. I'm doing my own shit at Sandy Shores. I put fear into the citizens of Blaine County. I am literally God. I got Trevor Phillips Industries, a good and loyal sidekick, although erratic as shit, an annoying yet docile man, two young and hungry lads, and one grumpy old man. It's the same old shit, but this normalcy is what I need."

Michael stared long and cold at me. "Normalcy is not in your vocabulary, Trevor. We're old now. We had our one last go like we were kids back in the day. Enjoy retirement. Do you want to go to fucking prison? I sure as hell not! I mean hell, we can fucking bribe the authorities now to not let us fucking rot in cells. Trevor, don't screw it up for you and I, and ESPECIALLY not for Franklin and Lamar. Do more legal shit for a change: You aren't stealing for survival anymore. I'm not anymore because I have purpose in my life. I'm not seeing that shit for brains shrink as much, because you know, I want to fucking live. I want you to fucking live a decent life, and not see you dead on the ground or in prison, rotting away. Despite the shit you pull, I want to see my friend live his days alive."

That was the most vulnerable thing Michael has said to me lately, and instead of convincing him that what I do in my life won't affect him that much, I sat silently, thumbing the worn in stain of dirt from my pants. He had a point. I didn't want to cause shit, but usually shit happens because some other person or group fucks with me first. But I don't want to live life like a shit sitcom. I didn't see myself in a middle class home. I didn't want to be a generic person with surpar qualities. I didn't want to be irrelevant to society, to myself even.

I didn't want to fuck up our already amended relationship with him again, because God knows how many times we got into fights over stupid shit. I, however, didn't want to compromise my own life. Could there be a balance?

Michael stared at me, his eyes searching for any sign of emotion.

"Well, T? What do you want to do that won't get you busted and/or killed?"

I sighed, thinking my hardest. What was I without chaos? Without living on the edge?

"Well, I always wanted to run my own independent flying academy, if that's even possible. I'm too old and apparently unfit to enlist, and college is in the water." I suggested, not even sure if I believed myself. I slumped into the sofa, sighing.

Michael hummed in curiosity. "Hmm, that doesn't sound half bad. You do have to watch your temper, so you know, you don't rip anyone's limbs off or shoot them."

I rolled my eyes. "Mikey, of course I'll watch my temper if I ever pursue this. The strip club I own is still running, right?"

"I'm glad you just haven't burned it down yet." Michael jabbed at me playfully. "I'm still waiting for that day to happen."

I socked him in the arm lightly, not meaning to. "Hey, I treat the ladies right. I make sure that they are respected and have a living wage. Burning down a place where sex workers can thrive and do what they love? Absolute madness!"

"You do have a soft spot, T. You just need to access it more. Hell, it'll probably scare less people off." Michael said, smiling. He stood up, and I followed suit. "Think of this as a new slate, a fresh chapter in your life. We are still brothers, but I am NOT going to go back to my criminal roots. I killed them, and I'm lucky to even be alive. Your shit will not interfere with my shit. Are we clear?"

I saluted Michael. "Aye, Captain. I gotta get back home. Do my thing. Thanks for letting me stay while I nursed a blackout and hangover."

"You're welcome, at least I know how to nip that in the bud quickly from plenty of experience." Michael chuckled and patted my back, leading me to the front door in the foyer. I put my hand on the door handle, looking at Michael.

"We gotta hang out soon, like real soon." I said with a hint of longing. "You're literally the center of my crazy world."

"Your center, but not involved with your illegal shit." Michael reminded me. "Take care, T."

Before I could muster my goodbye, I grabbed his hand, and he twitched a little bit. Then he softened up, and squeezed my hand gently as quickly as he retracted it.

"Later, Mikey." I said softly, exiting his house, looking back at one curious Michael. I'm sure he was wondering why the hell I did such a thing.

But I didn't really understand why _ I _ even did that.

I drove off in my beat up red truck, wanting more from Michael. We always had such an interesting history. There was nothing that wasn't unsaid or undone. He knew me and I knew him.

I didn't get the answers as to why Vespucci Beach really happened, so that frustrates the hell outta me. Michael's great at beating around the bush. And by great, I mean fucking frustrating. And my own dumbass didn't interrogate him as I should have. 

I noticed I was getting distracted on the road and I nearly rear-ended several cars at this point, so I pulled over to a parking spot on the street to collect myself. Turning the truck off, I tried to block the glossy Vinewood streets and feel the gentle breeze on my face.

Of course, that didn't stop my eyes from wandering like the sadomasochist that I am. Out of my corner of my eye, I saw a man handing out flyers, shouting "Come and see a film like no other! I wrote the script for this!"

I scoffed. _ Amateur _.

"If you like psychological thrillers and trying to understand twisted people, take a flyer!" The man shouted louder, handing these flyers to every person imaginable.

I got out of my truck and practically got up to his face. He turned around, and jumped, looking a bit nervous and frazzled.

"Hey kid, I'll take a flyer for your little YouTV video." I said with sarcasm, holding out my hand.

"It's actually a funded indie flick from an established film studio wanting to broaden their audience, but of course, us millennials are too daft to even consider a bigger audience." He said sarcastically, giving me the flyer with a smirk. "Yes, we even do old fashioned flyers along with social media. I know, a waste of paper. At least it's recycled paper."

I would have usually sock, no, slay this pretentious asshole. But his execution of words impressed me.

I took the paper from his dainty hand. "My mistake: another run of the mill Webflic streamed movie."

He laughed dryly. "Your insults are elementary at best. You should try to break it into comedy, like the rest of these so-called "up and coming" comedians."

I gripped the paper a little too tightly, glaring at him.

"Up yours, asshat." I sneered, backing away.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll enjoy it a little too much. Psychos really turn me on." He winked at me playfully. "My social media is on the page. DM me if you like, crazy critic."

I flipped him the bird and walked back to my truck, slamming the door once I got in. I took the paper and smashed it into the glovebox, hoping to never see that piece of shit paper or person again. How's he going to get great publicity if he acts like he owns the place and gets to badmouth strangers, potential fans?

I scowled and turned up the radio, blaring loud punk music from Channel X from my speakers. I sped off to Sandy Shores, nearly wrecking others and myself in my road rage.

If Michael wanted to see me, he would go to my turf.

Fuck Vinewood.

Fuck that asshat film writer.

And oh my God I want to fuck Michael in the ass until he forgets his bitch of a wife.

This is enough writing for today. I might as well masturbate to my porn playlist.

Vinewood is bullshit,

Trevor


End file.
